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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26660800">Fool's Errand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickersnap/pseuds/wickersnap'>wickersnap</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Family Fluff, Fluff, Minor Injuries, October Prompt Challenge, Other, Palps gets what palps deserves, Supernatural Elements, some jedi/clone relationships left open to interpretation I guess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:26:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,022</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26660800</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickersnap/pseuds/wickersnap</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty-one days of six sentence (for my sanity) snippets, with clonetober prompts compiled by the wonderful <a href="https://threetinyshinies.tumblr.com/post/629806325397913600/ive-seen-lots-of-options-for-drawtober-this-year">threetinyshinies on tumblr</a> :')</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>104th Battalion | Wolfpack Battalion &amp; CC-3636 | Wolffe, Boil &amp; Numa &amp; Waxer (Star Wars), Boil &amp; Waxer (Star Wars), CC-1004 | Gree &amp; Luminara Unduli, CC-1010 | Fox &amp; CC-4477 | Thire, CC-1010 | Fox/Quinlan Vos, CC-2224 | Cody &amp; Jango Fett, CC-2224 | Cody &amp; Quinlan Vos, CC-2224 | Cody &amp; Slick, CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-2224 | Cody/Quinlan Vos, CC-5052 | Bly/Aayla Secura, CT-21-0408 | Echo &amp; CT-27-5555 | Fives | ARC-5555, CT-21-0408 | Echo/CT-27-5555 | Fives | ARC-5555, CT-27-5555 | Fives | ARC-5555 &amp; CT-5597 | Jesse, CT-5385 | Tup &amp; Torrent Company, CT-5597 | Jesse &amp; CT-6116 | Kix, CT-7567 | Rex &amp; Ahsoka Tano, CT-7567 | Rex/Ahsoka Tano, CT-7567 | Rex/Anakin Skywalker, Colt &amp; Shaak Ti, Dogma &amp; CC-1010 | Fox, Dogma &amp; Hardcase (Star Wars), Hardcase &amp; CT-5597 | Jesse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>132</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Bucket, Fox & Thire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Thire knocks twice on Fox’s door and lets himself in without waiting for a response, fearing that with any more leeway he may find himself locked out, permanently. Fox is exactly where everyone suspected, slumped behind his desk and staring (likely unseeingly) at the useless datapad in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he still has his bucket on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thire sets his own carefully on the seat of the visitor’s chair before rounding the desk and tilting Fox’s head up, gently pressing his fingers beneath the seal of the buy’ce and prying it off his sweaty curls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beneath it, his brother’s expression is torn through, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shredded</span>
  </em>
  <span> with pain and regret.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He was our chance,” Fox says, his voice thin and strained to hell, “he was our chance, our </span>
  <em>
    <span>brother, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>killed</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Doubt, Kix & Jesse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I can’t do this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words fall from his mouth before he can really do anything to stop them. Jesse’s arms tighten around his waist and pull him closer, closer, </span>
  <em>
    <span>closer,</span>
  </em>
  <span> pressing his nose into the junction of his neck and ensconcing him in warmth and comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do anything you set your mind to, little Kixie,” Jesse murmurs, as if the world isn’t crashing down around their ears—as if their </span>
  <em>
    <span>brothers</span>
  </em>
  <span> aren’t going to bleed out at their feet. “You’ve always been able to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that, the only option Kix has is to believe him; it might not be safe and it might not quite be sane, but he doesn’t know a time where he’s ever doubted his Jess.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Haunt, Tup & the 501st</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm just sitting here making myself sad at this point</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tup sits on the edge of the nearest desk, swinging his feet and watching the movement of the medbay with a distracted sort of interest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man,” Coric says, giving an exaggerated shiver, “why the hell’s it so cold in here today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine over here,” says Ridge, popping his head out of the supply room door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How should I know?” Kix mutters at the clipboard in front of him. He tuts something and reaches for the stylus just behind Tup, inadvertently thrusting his arm right through Tup’s midriff. The lights above them flicker gently in indignance, making Coric and Jesse flinch and frown upwards; Tup sighs.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Rest, Boil & Waxer & Numa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me @ me, constantly: please do something happy please do something happy plea</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Boil crosses his arms as he looks down at the grinning little twi’lek clutching the shin guard of her partner in crime.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” he says, reaching out a patient hand, “hand them over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Numa pouts as she hands him her makeshift sling, filled to the absolute brim with tiny 212th-yellow bb pellets. He folds the material and carefully tucks it away in his pouch; with another glance at Waxer, who looks wholly unconcerned, he narrows his eyes and holds his hand out again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the </span>
  <em>
    <span>rest.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aww!” Numa cries as Waxer deflates, digging out the rest of the stolen pellets and two plastic pistols—if there’s anything left for Boil to say, it’s trust Waxer to come up with a clever way to trick Cody and Kenobi into letting them train the child in weapons-handling.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Glint, Wolffe & the 104th</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Wolffe catches the glint of glee in Sinker’s eyes half a second too late to stop him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never really understood the idea of watching things go wrong in slow-motion outside of a battle—that is, until now; Sinker takes a running leap off the stack of supply crates and just barely catches hold of the exposed coolant dispersal pipe near the ceiling. Boost appears out of nowhere  a level or so below him, already running, and uses his own momentum to latch onto Sinker’s swinging legs and pitch himself across the chasm between what Wolffe sees now, very obviously, are two highly regulation-defying crate-forts. He hits the crates too hard and fast for either Comet or Warthog to stop his advance, instead crashing headlong into them and sending them all sprawling farther into the fort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the other fort Twill whoops and cheers, and Sinker drops himself down from the ceiling, all of them yet to catch sight of Wolffe who places both hands on his hips and glares up at them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” he says loudly, nearly startling Sinker off his perch, “is anyone going to tell me why <em>I</em> wasn’t invited to this party?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Tears, Gree & Luminara</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The needle is tiny between his fingers, a small pinprick of metal that’ll be lost to the ship forever if he doesn’t keep a tight hold on it. The material in his hands is thick but the thread is strong, the needlepoint sharp, and each stitch glides through like it’s silk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gree wonders, sometimes, what his life would be like if he and his Jedi were sent on the missions the Order usually dealt with, before the war; he wonders if his General would be a General, if she and the Commander would come back from every manoeuvre in shredded cloaks and skirts just the same. He wonders if there would be more smiling and warmth shared between them, rather than the rift that tears open wider and wider with every disaster they meet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’s done he inspects his work—it’s nowhere near perfect, he knows, nothing like it was when it was new, but he also knows how little care the robes of the Jetiise receive outside of the Temple, despite how much they may mean to his General.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There just isn’t the time, Gree,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she tells him kindly, tiredly, and he doesn’t quite have the time either, but all armour, even this stranger kind, is important to all of the vod’e; if there is something in this hellscape of a life within his power to fix, he’ll do it.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Droid, Slick & Cody</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Smoke swirls around his feet as he backs up against the gunship skeleton, crouched amongst the debris and picking off startled droids one by one. Dirt and gravel crunches harsh beneath his boots and he ducks, swearing as the next commando yells an order and throws an arm in his direction. The stupid things aren’t hard to take down, no, never have been, but the smoke is both a good cover and good at obscuring his view, leaving him half-reliant on gauging their positions by reversing blaster bolt trajectories. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet just as he thinks he’s finished them all off and is wondering where his unit is, there’s a warning shout from somewhere ahead; Slick turns just in time to watch a droid looming menacingly above him on the gunship roof scream and lose its head, replaced in quick succession by the imposing figure of none other than Commander Cody himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Commander watches it twitch on the ground before he turns to Slick and taps his helmet twice in friendly acknowledgement—Slick can’t help but grin, just a little awed behind his face, as he returns the gesture.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Pounce, Blackout</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There’s an animal watching him from the bushes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blackout takes another drag of his cig—fuck knows where Dill gets them from, but he’s not about to look a gift fathier in the mouth—and blows the stream of smoke out slowly, leaning back against the open blast shields of the gunship. The tiny glinting eyes do not waver, but they do shuffle a foot or so closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the toe of his boot, and still with an ear tuned to his comm in case the mission, as always, goes quickly sideways, he unearths a large pebble and kicks it up so that it sails into the grassy clearing between them. For a long and disappointing moment he thinks nothing’s going to happen, but the eyes lower ever so slightly and then leap like a shot into the open air—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little feral lothcat yowls as it pounces on its stony prey and rolls over in the grass, clawing madly at it before turning to glare righteous bloody murder at him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. General, Rex & Ahsoka</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rex watches the shuttle touch down with rising, roiling anticipation bubbling in his chest. The landing ramp hisses, lowers, lets them all see the passengers descending onto the ship—returning </span>
  <em>
    <span>home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles when she sees them, an ear-to-ear grin that despite all of his training and professionalism Rex is absolutely helpless to return. She stops in front of him, her montrals taller and her lekku longer than he last saw, even if she looks just the same to him as she had the little youngling who’d arrived green and shiny on Christophsis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s great to see you, Rex,” says new Jedi Knight Ahsoka Tano, and her eyes are shining.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods once, not entirely sure his own are quite dry, and replies, “It’s always good to see you, General.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Dance, Echo & Fives</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>:’)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Echo laughs as he’s led clumsily and too-quickly around the cramped ARC berths. There’s no music but the hum of the colossal ship hyperdrives and the noise of their brothers all around them, but Fives’ hands are warm in his own and on his waist, and nothing else matters. When Fives smiles, wide and carefree, he realises that there’s nowhere else in the galaxy he’d rather be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fives lifts their arms and tries to spin Echo beneath them, but Echo holds tight and leans his weight to pull Fives around instead. Caught out by the unexpected tug Fives trips, his foot catching on the edge of his own bunk, and topples them both down onto, thankfully, the soft-ish mattress. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Echo finds himself laughing again as he lies there, helpless, trapped beneath a metric ton of ARC, with a welcome nose buried in his hair and an arm wrapped securely around his waist.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Training, Kote & Jango</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Prime is back,</span>
  </em>
  <span> say the whispers in the halls. Kote and his batchers don’t need to rely on rumours to know that, of course, not when Jango is just finishing up throwing them all into the mats of the training room in person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kote watches Wolffe whimper quietly as he drags himself back to his feet, forcing a smile to pained lips even as the one he’s smiling for is turning away at the sound of another, younger child’s voice. Little Boba pouts from the doorway, his arms crossed and surly until he’s hefted into a strong embrace and soon having to fight off attempts to ruffle his hair—exactly the kind that they all long for from days long, long past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kote knows that Jango may have given him his name, but he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not really.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Grub, Ponds & Lightning Squadron</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Tell me again,” the Commander says, and not for the first time, with the bridge of his nose pinched between his forefinger and thumb. “What, exactly, possessed you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>bury</span>
  </em>
  <span> the transponders you knew we needed to access in only a few hours’ time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stak grumbles as he shovels at the dirt in the general vicinity of where they know they hid the damned things—“Security,” he says, “because there’s so much movement in the trees, we thought they’d get knocked out or eaten.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you </span>
  <em>
    <span>buried them,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ponds repeats, “and then </span>
  <em>
    <span>forgot where.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“We didn’t <em>forget,”</em> Razor protests, petulant, “we just didn’t give them little markers or nothin’, in case the Seps caught wind and grubbed them up first!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ponds doesn’t sigh heavily into his hand, but he very much finds he wants to.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Hope, Thorn & Hound</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>On the soft clouds that rise above the skyscrapers and speeder lanes, soft rays of pink and gold and lavender paint and twist and glow; Thorn hangs out of the open office window as he watches them, watches the light glint off the angled hulls of the thousands of craft flitting below and overhead, and feels the gusts of thin atmo brush past the curls on his forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Careful,” Hound grunts from his sprawl on their ragged sofa, “any farther and we’ll be scraping you off the second level.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thorn scoffs, flapping a hand back at him, “Rude, I’m more than capable of sticking the fall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm, tell that to Foxy when his favourite’s in pieces at the bottom of the tower.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a phrase Thorn remembers, overheard from one of the many senators they tear themselves in two to appease: </span>
  <em>
    <span>red sky at night, nerfherd’s delight</span>
  </em>
  <span>—as if any of them had ever met one in person before, and not just sent Thorn or his brothers in their stead. Thorn gazes up at the flaring evening sky again, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips at the memory of a young sentient girl and her folk songs in the straw of a barn on a far, far away planet, and allows himself to dream.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Pocket, Bly/Aayla</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The shell shimmers with conchoidal, fractured iridescence between his black gloved fingers, sleek and slim and slippery and beautiful. It’s sturdy, pale, and uninhabited as far as he can tell, just a souvenir from this once innocent beach they’re now scouting for Seppie holdouts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Black sands stretch out as far as the eye can see, the hissing ocean a long way off for now, ringed on the horizon by a basin wall of several dozen colossal, towering volcanic peaks. The General is currently perched in one of the many branching and twisting trees high above, on the lookout for threats and balancing with swaying lekku. Bly allows himself a short moment’s watching her and a smile, an appreciation of her dedication and ingenuity, before slipping the shell into one of several pockets on his supply belt. He knows she’ll take a liking to its beauty when he presents her with it later—they’re of the same mind in more than just strategy, most of the time.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Headbutt, Colt & Shaak</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thin, pale fingers stretch across his throat in the space between his helmet and his chest armour. It’s an unspoken threat despite the light touch, implied in the way she commands the Force of the dar’jetii with a snarl and a violent crack; Colt stands limp and relaxed in her grip, waiting.</p>
<p>“Master Ti,” the assassin purrs, “now that I have your precious plaything, whatever are you going to do?”</p>
<p>If he wasn’t so carefully maintaining his airs of indifference, he would laugh at the thoroughly unimpressed look General Ti levels her with, but the assassin only cackles, crossing in front of him and replacing one hand with the other in a silken, disgusting movement.</p>
<p>The moment she steps behind him he takes his chance—he wrenches his head in a sudden backwards movement with all his strength, met with a highly satisfying thud of contact against his bucket. If he’s lucky, he’ll have broken her nose along with her pride, now that he’s signed his own death warrant.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Punch, Wooley & 212th Medical</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You are insanely lucky, you know that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wooley cringes again as the bandages are pulled around his knuckles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The last guy I saw try that got shot </span>
  <em>
    <span>immediately—”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Check glares as he works, wiping excess bacta from around the wrappings, “—so I suppose I should congratulate you on recovering quickly enough to get it before it got you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Wooley mumbles with embarrassment; he remembers the look the Commander had given him after he’d been unlucky enough to be caught trying it, and he’s certain he’s been sufficiently scared off thinking anything so stupid ever again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bandages are tied off, neatened, and approved in one practised motion as Check asks him, “So, what do we </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> do on a battlefield, trooper?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No matter what the Commander does,” Wooley sighs, rote, “we don’t punch droids.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Hobby, Crys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Slicing, Crys has found, speaks fairly well for itself. It’s good work; a sharp-bladed knife that glides through the source until it finds target and cuts in, precise, silent, </span>
  <em>
    <span>clean,</span>
  </em>
  <span> a virtual rendition of one of Check’s dutifully maintained and accounted-for scalpels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight that knife is quite taken with the requisitions log.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one says the 212th don’t hold grudges the same as their Commander, no, no one’s stupid enough to make that mistake anymore—Crys scrolls through the list as several item codes are tweaked by a digit or two, tickets are deleted and some shifted in priority. If Crys grins when he sees code </span>
  <em>
    <span>2224</span>
  </em>
  <span> beside another tired plead for spare Jedi-wrangling  paraphernalia and another shipment for teas and ups the quantity two-fold… well, they can thank him for it later, just like his brothers can for the bottle he’d sneaked into Trapper’s locker last planetfall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nevertheless, if all is as it should be, no one will notice his changes until long after they’ve filtered through the system, which should be just a few minutes after they’ve figured out how to stop every holoscreen in the ship blaring that Force-awful charts music vidchannel at full volume, and before Cody loses the remaining shreds of his sanity once and for all.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Traitor, Dogma</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Rattling metal and engines of a descending shuttle rouse Dogma abruptly from the uneasy doze he’d fallen into. He expects the shattering slant of a heavy rainstorm against the transport roof, surprised when he’s greeted by the planet with nothing more than mild atmo climate—a rare good day then, he thinks, how appropriate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns his mind to the fate awaiting him below with a grim acceptance; the darkness, the screaming, the death he relives in instantaneous, unstoppable flashes draw him directly back into that room, cuffed, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hated,</span>
  </em>
  <span> with only one clear option left as the scene plays out in front of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A traitor of a private is a hell of a lot less of a threat than one of a supposed Jetii.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The long approach ends with a steady touch down and a bustling of Dogma, still bound, out into a noise and brightness and bustle that shouldn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Su’cuy, vod,” greets the red-plated Commander standing just a few paces from the bottom of the landing ramp, “welcome to the Coruscant Guard.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Aim, Hardcase & the 501st</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s too bright.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room is dark, except for the spotlight burning Hardcase’s retinas. It means the figures gathered in front of him are shadowed—not that it keeps him from knowing exactly who they are—and the two either side of him are stiff with tension. He feels Jesse shift and press their shoulders briefly together before separating again, a muttered, “I’m still glad we got you out of there,” on his tongue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hardcase purses his lips and continues staring out at the brothers, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his brothers,</span>
  </em>
  <span> ordered to raise their blasters on them and take aim; for someone who always has something to say, maybe it’s fitting that he has nothing left now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of blaster fire makes him flinch back, barely, but it’s a few moments before he realises he’s still alive enough to do it.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Launch, Rex/Anakin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“And you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> this will work?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Anakin scoffs, “I’m more than confident you’re capable—you’ve had harder missions.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rex sighs, exasperated, “That wasn’t what I was talking about—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anakin sneaks his arm around Rex’s waist and tugs him over, bumping their hips in a friendly manner before his captain gives in and slumps into his side. “I’ve got you, remember?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” Rex says. He taps their bracers together, letting their fingers brush false-innocently where glove meets glove, and Anakin grins as he gathers the Force around them both and, with a running start, launches them gleefully out into the crevasse. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Orders, Fives & Jesse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Orders are orders,” Fives says into the dimly lit store room, to which Jesse does a poor job of stifling his laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so gonna be scrubbing floors with a toothbrush,” the arse snickers, as if Rex won’t dish it out to both of them without a second thought and </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Fives breaks off the end of the plasfilm and tucks it around the edge of the last box of datapads before replacing it on the shelf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He </span>
  <em>
    <span>told</span>
  </em>
  <span> me to wrap it up,” he protests when Jesse lobs an empty tube at his head, “and if we blame it on Shadow they won’t be able to complain, not after what they pulled last cycle.” With a look around the room, all that stares back at him is covered with the light sheen of film and mischief, and a job well-done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesse grins and nudges him with an elbow, and to Fives’ knowing groan, says, “Best be careful not to let little Dogma doesn’t grass you up, yeah?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Airdrop, Trapper & Gearshift</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The ground below is an endless mesh of lilac and blue, a canopy so thick the smoke from the fighting barely has the exhaust to escape into the buzzing skies. Ahead is a rare and coveted clearing choked with droids and soldiers alike, but so far up it merely looks like a tussling knot of movement, doomed to bloodbath and scrapheap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trapper leans out past the blast shields as they come up on the clearing, absently checking the seals holding the shiny new and questionably modified jetpack to his armour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess we owe Torrent for persuading the Generals into getting us these,” Gearshift shouts over the roaring of engines and shelling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t thank ’em til you get down without blasting your shebs off!” he yells back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Up front the pilot gives the signal, and all too suddenly it’s their time to shine.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Lounge, Bly/Aayla</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Bly comes-to with an unnatural weight pressing against his front.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes snap open in a moment as every one of his muscles tenses solid, bracing, preparing for a fight, but his gaze falls only on the soft blue skin of a pair of lek just beneath his chin. Relaxing back into the minimal give the officer’s lounge sofa gives him, Bly breathes carefully through his nose and lifts a hand to stroke gently down Aayla’s warm side—her skin is soft, unimaginably soft and beautiful and Bly wants her beneath his hands and happy </span>
  <em>
    <span>forever—</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My apologies, Bly,” she murmurs into his collar, “I did not mean to startle you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s nothing, don’t worry,” he replies in a similarly low mumble, wholly reluctant to jar them out of this fragile and coveted cocoon of calm. She tilts her head up to kiss the underside of his jaw so gently he would have missed it, if not for the feel of her breath, and he smiles, knowingly and unabashedly besotted, and turns his head so that he can press his cheek to the crown of her head.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Swap, Cody/Obi-Wan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The ground is cold and hard, even through the thick plates of plastoid on his back. Cody groans at the sound of harried voices and squints up into his General’s—Obi-Wan’s—eyes. Numb fingers fumble at the catches on his left vambrace and tug it gracelessly from his arm.</p>
<p>“Wan’… Wan’ you t’ have this,” he slurs, pressing it into Obi-Wan’s hands as he swallows through the echoing pain.</p>
<p>Another, slightly different guard is strapped down into the empty space his left; Cody looks down at it and then up at Obi-Wan’s watery smile.</p>
<p>“Rest, my darling,” he whispers, and Cody thinks he might have managed a laugh before he slipped under one last time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sorry</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Routine, Tup & Echo & Kix</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>“Get back in here!”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kix’s shout echoes off the durasteel, followed closely by Echo’s yelp as he collides with an inconvenient door frame. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, quick,” Tup hisses urgently at the shiny he’s pushing through the corridors—light footsteps follow hurriedly in the few moments before Echo catches them both by the scruff of their blacks and hauls them into a nearby supply closet. The door shuts and the light clicks on, leaving all three pressed against the walls and frozen still not to make a sound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Force’s sake!” Kix yells, “it’s just a check up! It’s routine, you idiots!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tup bites down hard on a giggle; more footsteps tap down the corridor outside for long seconds before going quiet, a pause that makes them all hold their breath, and then there’s a sigh and a beep and the door of the cupboard opens traitorously to reveal—damn it, Kix.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Plastoid, Fox/Quinlan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is,, a bit more suggestive lmao. Also catch me pretending anything inside one set of inverted commas is a single sentence. I have a permit and it says I do what I want.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Quinlan sighs into Fox’s ear as he drapes himself dramatically over Fox’s shoulders and back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re sure I can’t convince you?” he murmurs, skimming lips and teeth up the side of his neck to nip at his earlobe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Positive,” Fox replies evenly and continues scrolling through his datawork, determined not to react in any way and ignoring his body’s spark of interest, safe in the knowledge that it’s so soon fated to be choked down by his codpiece.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quinlan lets his hands drift down to Fox’s hips and pulls him even tighter into the curve of his body, “But aren’t you uncomfortable? I’m uncomfortable just looking at you… And it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>such</span>
  </em>
  <span> a shame how much this plastic shell hides.” He taps his fingers slowly along the front of Fox’s plackart; some tiny muscle in Fox’s back twitches, and he snatches a hand out to catch Quinlan’s tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vos,” he warns, but it’s game over the moment he turns to catch Quinlan’s smug and tempting gaze and his next breath stutters against his will—his belt and kama are already on the floor by the time he realises he’s let Quinlan’s tricky fingers slip through his grip.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Plush, Cody & Quinlan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Cutting it real close to the limit here in GMT with 40 minutes left of today, but we're good. Anyway it does mean this one's a bit naff, but I did keep getting distracted and forgetting to do it so I guess it's just my punishment to myself.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Cody’s just inside the open doorway of the barracks common room when he freezes, his boots sunk into something soft and unsteady instead of the solid duracrete-and-vinyl his brain had been expecting. His thoughts immediately flicker to sand dunes, piled high and red in the dry heat of Geonosis, and then to ankle-deep mud and torrential rains; when he looks down, however, all that’s there is something a pleasant shade of blue and… </span>
  <em>
    <span>woolen.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bright cackle of laughter cracks across the room and he looks up to see half a squad of Ghosts huddled around a caf table with a holorecorder out and aimed towards him at the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see you’ve experienced the new flooring, Commander,” says an unexpected and unmistakable voice from somewhere behind the group—General Vos pops up from behind Longshot and grins dazzlingly at Cody, rounding the table to prop his hip up on one side and fold his bare arms over his chest and gesture to the… the </span>
  <em>
    <span>carpet</span>
  </em>
  <span> now smothering the previously wipe-clean floors, thick and plush and soft and absolutely bound to get them all several months’ worth of disciplinary.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“General,” he greets wryly, “I take it you’re behind this major breach of regulation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His troopers struggle to smother another bout of laughter and Vos’ grin turns sharp, smug, and he practically purrs, “Why, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cody,</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m offended you even had to ask.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Stink, Hardcase & Dogma</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>can't believe I did two Vos fills in a row... my apologies friends. now for some regular schedule Torrent!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Absolutely not,” Dogma says before Hardcase can even open his mouth, “you can go and drip elsewhere, you are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> coming in here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hardcase gapes at him from the corridor, gesturing weakly to his mud drenched armour while his vod blocks the barracks door with as much of his body as he can utilise; Hardcase is tired and cold and uncomfortable, and all he wants is to get somewhere warm and safe and out of his disgusting armour and </span>
  <em>
    <span>sit down.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Dogma,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he whines, but there’s a muffled snort from somewhere inside the room and a shout of “Get lost!” doubtlessly from Jesse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t I at least get my spare blacks?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dogma sighs and softens, waving to the others behind him until someone chucks a bunched pile of nanoprene into his arms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” he says, reaching delicately out to drop the clothes into Hardcase’s hands, “and don’t come back until you’ve gotten rid of that smell.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Bunk, Cody/Obi-Wan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is an apology for day 24 &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Star destroyers are not known for being warm places, not in space, with all their chilly grey durasteel and severe-faced corridors. Bunk rooms are not exempt from this unfortunate failing, often with minimal or no climate controls and under equipped for troop comfort, but Cody has something better than any thermostat or quilt, right here in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your feet are freezing,” Obi-Wan murmurs, his face tucked into Cody’s neck and his arms slung over his middle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you think yours aren’t?” Cody retorts; they’re not, not anymore, since they’d wormed their way between his shins whole minutes ago and refused to move away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No they’re not,” the High General of the Third Systems Army pouts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cody huffs a laugh and tightens the grip he has on his love’s waist—tomorrow may be another slog through manoeuvers, maintenance, datawork and strategic planning, but the quiet nights are for them and them alone, and Cody would be a damn fool not to cherish every single moment.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Stretch, Jesse & the 501st</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I seem to have gotten confused yesterday, somewhere between 7th Sky Corps and Third Systems Army (no seven systems army thank u) but I have now mended my embarrassing mistake. I obviously did the thing where I say 'oh I need to check that' and then. don't. Oh well.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jesse is beginning to regret trying the stunt by the time he’s leant most of his weight out over the gap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Don’t come crying to me when you fall and break your face,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Kix had said, and now watches him with mild amusement alongside Denal and Tup, both of whom are visibly trying not to snicker. Jesse’s knees tilt forward on the slab of a mattress and his whole body wobbles, forcing him to lash out an arm with a yelp to grab hold of his target—the top of the next bunk over—and catches himself, to the jeers and disappointment of his spectators.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a bit of a stretch, clinging to one frame and forcing his toes into the little give his own bed provides, a bit like planking but… higher stakes, if he likes his nose as it is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, guys?” he says when they’ve all stopped laughing and throwing pillows at him. Nax and Attie throw a couple of ration bars instead, nailing him in the ribs, and Hardcase barks a laugh as he asks, “How do I get down?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Blaster, Fox</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Twilight descends upon Coruscant’s vibrance, turning every level into a haze of bright lights and movement near-indistinguishable web of capital. Farther away, sneering down upon it all stands the Senate and the hidden passages within, once built for servants and droids, maybe, that no one seems to realise the Guards know of; it’s a stupid oversight, even if few senators themselves are aware of them, because knowing is their job, and their jobs are their </span>
  <em>
    <span>lives,</span>
  </em>
  <span> quite literally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a Force-suppressing cuff clasped around each wrist Fox settles himself in behind one plasterboarded entrance, his bucket cams switched to infrared and trained on the figure seated behind the desk of the grand, austere office on the other side. The barrel of the blaster rifle rests steady in the curve of the miniscule peephole already cut for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fox breathes in, once, calmly, and doesn’t think of the scars, the burns, the lost time, nor the silhouettes of wrinkled hands seared into his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds his breath and takes the shot.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>KARMA</p><p>Thank you for reading!!! I hope you've enjoyed! All your love and support has been highly appreciated 🥺💛</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Come sob with me over these guys on <a href="https://silverxsakura.tumblr.com/">tumblr!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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